“Please accept this as an alibi.

EDWARD”

*   *   *

Maurice also had received a card. The message was one word shorter:

“This is where I am.”

Maurice stuck the card on his mantelpiece after a single glance. He was sorry, but not particularly surprised, to hear that Edward was out of reach. Edward had promised to take him to Paris next Vac. Very likely he’d forgotten. There was no expecting anything from Edward, and Maurice was much too worried to waste any time thinking about him just now.

A very awkward thing had happened.

Currie had said, once or twice, that Maurice might borrow his Sunbeam when he wasn’t there. And so, naturally, Maurice had taken to using it regularly. And, of course, it had had one or two little knocks which the garage people had grinned over and charged to Mr. Currie’s account. Apparently he never made a fuss.

And so things had gone on in a very nice friendly way until last week, when Maurice had had the bad luck to run straight through a brick wall when swerving and skidding to avoid some fool on a push-bike. And Farncombe, who’d been with him, had broken his arm and his collar-bone. And Currie had suddenly become quite beastly, which Maurice couldn’t understand. He was sorry he’d ever made friends with the man. Worst of all, Jimmy was making a thorough enquiry into the whole affair.

So Maurice had almost forgotten Edward’s existence.

*   *   *

Eric’s brain, whenever he was not actually working, struggled with the composition of a letter to Edward. He made drafts of it and tore them up immediately. Sometimes it was to be very long. Sometimes very short. What exactly did he want to say? He didn’t know.

That letter was never written.

Book Four

BOOK FOUR

1929

Chapter I

I

THE headlights of the car illuminated a notice on a tree. “Trespassers will be prosecuted.” Somebody had cut this with a penknife and scribbled it over with chalk.

Maurice drew on the brake and turning yelled out:

“Wake up, we’re here.”

Mary stirred comfortably on the back seat and came out of her doze far enough to say:

“Be quiet. We aren’t.”

“Does one open the gates,” asked Edward, “or do we wait for the lodge-keeper?”

“You’re the lodge-keeper,” said Maurice.

“Why all this excitement?” came Margaret’s voice languidly, from the back seat. “Has there been an accident?”

“No,” said Edward, “we’ve reached John o’ Groats and Mary’s forgotten to bring the bathing-suits.”

He opened the door of the car and got out stiffly.

“My God, it’s cold!”

“Well, keep it to yourself, my lad,” said Mary. “We’ll believe you.”